“Well, Mamma!” Fanny breezed prettily into the room, swathed in a new gown expensively tailored for her changing shape. “How very cold it is out there! We thought at first to remain at my house, but it is so insufferably dull, with none but ourselves to speak to. I came to introduce someone to you who has been longing to meet you both. Ah, good morning, Margaret,” she added as an afterthought. “This is Mildred Wright. She and her husband, Mr Harold Wright, are staying with us a few days. Mildred, my mother and John’s wife Margaret.”
Margaret studied the woman. Mrs Wright was older than herself by several years, but age had not diminished her beauty. Rather, she was one of those rare specimens who becomes only more graceful and imposing as the freshness of youth fades. Her hair was a perfect shade of flaxen, with crystal blue eyes and flawless skin. She was slender through her shoulders down to her ivory fingertips, and her figure gave no evidence that the passing of children had ever marred it. Margaret’s hand touched unconsciously over her own softened middle, where her long lying-in had left some remembrance of her recent trials.
Hannah was dipping her head in a tight, controlled greeting, her heavy jowls clenched so that only her lips moved as she performed the required civility. “How do you do, Mrs Wright?”
The lady answered more generously than her hostess. “Very well, Mrs Thornton. I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last, for I have heard much of you for many years.”
Hannah’s nostrils were distending, and she lifted her chin when the other woman’s words struck her as a slight against her age.
Clearly sensing the older lady less amenable to conversation, Mrs Wright turned then to Margaret. “And Margaret Thornton, I am delighted to know you at last! It is a very great pleasure to meet the woman who finally captured the finest prize in Milton.”
Margaret felt her cheek flicker. “I am sure I do not know what you mean by ‘capture,’ madam.”
“Do forgive me, Mrs Thornton!” Mrs Wright laughed. “I am afraid I can be dreadfully impertinent. But you must know, I meant my words as a compliment. Mr Thornton could have had his choosing of many for years, and so I must conclude that only the most remarkable woman in Milton would have at last caught his eye.”
Margaret returned an uncomfortable smile. “I am obliged to you. Will you be seated?”
“Yes, thank you.” Mrs Wright gathered her ample skirts, which rivalled Fanny’s for flounces and detail, and settled herself. “I beg you will forgive my little tease, Mrs Thornton. I have known John Thornton since I was very young, practically a girl still, and I must confess to some degree of fascination that he remained a bachelor for so many years. It must have been a particular affection which decided him to take the yoke; I am looking forward to knowing you better.”
“I see, Mrs Wright.” Margaret gestured to Jane that a tray should be brought for their guests, then fell silent.
“I declare, Mamma—” Fanny was gazing about the room—“not a stitch in this house has changed! I would have thought that you would all redecorate, particularly after Margaret came here. Margaret, was not your mother’s taste very different? I should have expected you to add some of that Herefordshire charm to our dreary old Milton house.”
“I am from Hampshire, Mrs Watson. I am content with this house as it is and have not felt the need to make any changes.”
“Fanny,” her mother interjected, a testy note in her voice, “where is your husband?”
Margaret met Hannah’s eyes in mild alarm. Oh, dear, Mr Watson and Mr Wright had not set upon John at his office again, had they?
“Oh! I am sure the men are at the bank this morning. They had another day or two of business before these latest dealings are settled. I am certainly glad that lot falls to them, and not to me!”
“But how fortunate that their affairs required a few days visit,” Mrs Wright soothed, “for I was able to convince Mr Wright that I ought to accompany him on this trip. I am pleased to meet new friends, for I have hardly set foot in Milton before now. I am from London, Mrs Thornton, but my father was a man of business, as is my husband. Consequently, much of my life has been influenced by matters here in Milton.”
“I hope the city pleases you, Mrs Wright,” Margaret acknowledged. “In what part of London do you live?”
“Paddington, not far from Marylebone. I understand you have family in Harley Street?”
“My aunt and cousin live there. I spent much of my childhood in their home.”
“You were fortunate, indeed! And I have heard that your father was a rector?”
“He was, until he retired to Milton to teach.”
“How curious! I have never heard of anyone coming to Milton to retire. It must have been a most peculiar circumstance that inspired that move. And that is how you met Mr Thornton, of course.”
“Yes.” Margaret took an uncomfortable sip of her tea. “He was my father’s friend and read the classics with him.”
“Ah! Yes, I remember John Thornton was always fond of his books as a youth. Why, I could hardly draw more than two words together out of him, even when we were dancing. And when he had to turn pages for me when I played the piano!” She rolled her eyes in delicate mirth. “A hopeless case!”
Margaret’s brow furrowed. “You must have known my husband rather well, Mrs Wright.”
“Oh, yes! When he was living with my husband’s family, my father was a business partner of the elder Mr Wright, and our families were intimate. I saw him frequently, those two years. Oh, the tales I could tell of your Mr Thornton! I am certain he would not thank me for sharing them, but you know, someday I shall do so simply to delight his wife and mother. You must imagine what a great pleasure it gives me to know that the acquaintance has been renewed. Mrs Thornton—” here, Mrs Wright turned her attention to Hannah—“may I compliment you on your fine needlework? I have not seen such excellent point work since my own mother’s.”
Hannah made a very decent reply, if somewhat terse, and Margaret was left free for a moment to gaze at the woman. Though shockingly forward, she was still as poised and elegant as anyone Margaret had ever seen. If her manner was studied, it was done with such finesse that one would never suspect. She could easily imagine such a woman holding court in the salons of London; the envy of dozens of other women and the intrigue of as many men.
A door closed from the outer passage, and every feminine voice in the drawing-room stilled. Margaret’s eyes went to the clock first, and a flutter of joy beat in her heart, for it would be John come home for his luncheon. She had not spoken to him in a full day and a half, and jealously wished their company long gone so she might have him for herself.
It was obvious by his expression that he had not expected to find his wife and mother entertaining guests, but he recovered quickly when he recognised his sister. “Fanny. You are looking well.”
“Never better, John!” Fanny’s hand stroked her stomach with a look of perfect unconsciousness. “Here, you must remember my friend, Mildred Wright.”
The barest flicker passed over his eyes, but then Margaret could not see his full face, for he turned to the newcomer. “Mrs Wright. It has been a long time. I trust you are well?”
“Perfectly so, John Thornton. The years have been exceedingly kind to you, sir.” The lady’s voice tinkled with delight, and Margaret’s skin started to crawl.
“As they have been to you, madam.” He began to turn towards Margaret, but Mrs Wright was speaking again.
“I am so pleased to know the new Mrs Thornton! You are a fortunate man, sir.”
“I am, indeed.” He glanced to Margaret with a shadow of a smile, then looked down to the floor.
“Mrs Thornton,” Mrs Wright continued, “you must call while I am staying with Fanny, so we may further our acquaintance. Better yet, let us have a dinner party—you do not mind, do you, dear Fanny? We shall make it a small affair, but only think how gay we might all be! Do you play, Mrs Thornton? We must have music, of course. As you were educated in London,
you may have even had the same masters as I. Perhaps we might attempt a duet. What do you think of that, Mr Thornton?”
Margaret was quailing slightly in her seat, her cheeks flinching with the effort of sustaining the false smile she wore. A dinner party! And she would be asked to exhibit her woeful skills beside this London goddess? She shuddered, then drew a breath of reassurance when reason crept back in. Even if she could endure another dinner party at Fanny’s so soon after her illness, surely John would never accept!
“That sounds most agreeable,” he replied.
Margaret blinked, then tilted her head. Had he just…? She stared at him but could read neither his expression nor his voice.
“Wonderful!” Mrs Wright enthused. “Dear Fanny, do you suppose we might have a bit of dancing as well? You have that charming drawing-room just adjacent to the music room, and certainly we could push about the furniture. Mr Thornton, do you recall how we used to have such parties at the Wrights’ house?”
“Fondly.” He shot a swift, indecipherable glance to Margaret, then looked at the floor once more. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I only had a few moments to spare now. If you ladies will excuse me, I must return to the mill soon.”
Fanny made some exasperated noise. “Oh, John, you never have a minute to call your own!”
“It is quite all right, Fanny.” Mrs Wright smiled—an expression which lingered long enough on John to make Margaret’s stomach flip. “We have staid a little over a quarter of an hour. Mrs Thornton, and Mrs Thornton—” she rose and nodded to each—“I thank you for your hospitality.” She came then to John, offering her hand with a knowing smile. “It has been delightful to see you again, sir.”
John took her hand, murmured something Margaret could not quite hear, and smiled back. Was that a peculiar warmth in his expression? There was certainly that in Mrs Wright’s manner which bespoke invitation, familiarity, and regret at leave-taking. Margaret could not help but to narrow her eyes in suspicion as Mrs Wright recalled some former episode in their mutual experiences, as if attempting to delay her departure.
Once the guests had finally gone, Hannah excused herself. Margaret drew hesitantly close to her husband, but he seemed preoccupied in looking down at one of his mother’s flower vases.
“John?” She touched his arm.
He flinched.
Margaret drew back her hand, surprised and hurt by his response. “Are you well?”
“I am not unwell.”
“I… that is not quite what I meant.”
“I have no fear of influenza, if that is your concern. Most of its victims have been the young….” His mouth worked, and he released a weary sigh. “The very young… and the old.”
“Influenza! Strange that you should assume I asked about that. Have there been more deaths?”
“One child I heard of today, and at least one old woman very near it. I expect there may be more.”
“But the healthy adults, most of your workers, are safe?”
“I did not say they were safe, only that most of them will not die. It is their children who will suffer the worst.”
“Is there nothing that can be done?”
“Apart from sending them all home to remain in their own houses until the fever has finished with the city? No.”
“That would do little good, for their houses are so close together. Even then, everyone must eat.”
He blew out a long sigh. “Indeed.” He stared down at the dried flowers again.
“John—” she raised her hand to touch him again, hesitated, then drew back. “Is something else troubling you?”
He glanced quickly to her. “Why do you ask?”
“We have not spoken since two nights ago. I had wished to apologise—”
“You do not need to apologise, Margaret.”
“But I do! I fear we misunderstood one another. It was never my wish that you would feel I did not desire… did not want….”
“I was to blame. I ought never to have permitted myself. I am not quite certain what possessed me to think it possible. The risk to your health is too great to consider any… intimacy. We should not speak of this here.”
Margaret drew an unsteady breath, wetting her lips as her eyes fell to the floor. The subject was as uncomfortable for her as for him, but if she did not urge him to speak now, she feared she would not have another opportunity for days—that the prospect would fester as an old, untended wound.
“You look weary.”
She raised her face. “I am only a little tired.”
“You should not be up so much. I fear your strength is not recovered. Think nothing of that dinner party, I do not know what came over me. We shall not accept if they truly do issue an invitation—which I doubt they will.”
She released a long, tense sigh. “I did not wish to go.”
“Of course, it is impossible. Wright aside, we could not think of it. You should be resting… in fact, I do not like you exerting yourself so much, even, as you have been.”
“On the contrary, John, I wished to resume walking out. I believe it would help me—”
“No,” he was shaking his head forcefully. “It is out of the question.”
She tilted her head. “Why? I have always found that walking improves my constitution. I may not be strong enough to walk for long, but—”
“Did you hear nothing I said before? The fever is ravaging the city. I have little fear for myself, but you must not risk it.”
“Surely that fear is unwarranted. I am not a child, nor am I elderly. I am not even malnourished or overworked. I should—”
“No. I will hear not another word on the matter, Margaret.”
Margaret felt an iron annoyance slipping into her shoulders and squaring her chin. “Mary Higgins has been ill. Am I not to be permitted the privilege of calling on my friend as she recovers? As she did for me? May I not even carry them a basket and try to comfort them?”
“We will have something sent, if you insist, but you must not go yourself. The chances of infection are too great.”
“What of them? Why should I be protected under a glass vase while others are still struggling to come to work?”
“You are not a factory worker!”
She narrowed her eyes, her heart twisting. Had he truly said that? “And what is that but an accident of birth? Why must they face a risk I am spared?”
“Margaret—” he shook his head and pulled away from her to pace the room—“your argument makes no sense. Had I the means to protect every one of them, I would do so. You are my wife, and I will protect you, whether you cooperate or fight me over the matter!”
She stilled, her heart pounding and spurring her on to the battle, while her mind attempted to reason with him. “I do not care to be dictated to,” she managed coolly.
He spun back, his face a confusion of irritation and disbelief. “And I do not understand why you would choose to argue about this! The matter is settled, Margaret. Heavens above, you nearly died! Would you fling yourself at death’s doorstep again?”
“That was over two months ago! I am recovered as well as I can be in this house. I must go out, take the air, and perhaps see my friends.”
“And you will, as soon as the fever is finished. Until then… Good lord, two months and you think yourself whole and healed! It is only in this last week you are not white as a sheet. I cannot believe I must dictate to you in this manner! You are an intelligent woman, Margaret, and I would see you behave as one.”
At the shock in her face, his fury seemed to wane. He put up a hand in apology, but she spoke first, her voice low and tight.
“You think me a child, prone to foolishness? You must become like my father now?”
“Margaret, please, do not make more of it than what it is. I had not intended to speak so harshly.”
“Yes—” she was nodding slowly—“that is it.” She gave a bitter laugh. “And it always has been so, despite whatever pretty words you use. John Thornton: Maste
r of the mill, master of his wife.”
He had begun to approach her, but stopped at her accusation, all the colour drained from his face. “That is unfair!”
“Were your words any less so?”
He turned away again, his hands falling to his sides as he walked to face the wall. “I apologised. What more shall I say?”
Margaret crossed her arms over her breast, tears pricking her eyes as she struggled for words.
He turned back at her silence, presuming it for defiance, and began to stalk towards her again. “Aye, you may well castigate and deride me, for you were right! I am a despot in my own home, where the life of one I love is at stake.”
She shook her head and extended a pleading hand. “John, I should not have—”
“What would please you, Margaret? I will not permit you to walk out so soon, but even a tyrant must keep the peace. Thus far I have tried and failed to cheer you.”
The stinging in her eyes intensified, and she feared if she did speak, her voice would betray her. He was too cruel! Nothing she could say would erase that self-loathing in his expression, nor the reproach he so justly cast at her feet.
She shook her head and covered her lips with her hands while she steadied her breath. At last, she risked a few quavering words. “I have no friends, John.”
He drew a few steps closer, his head cocked to hear her better. “What was that?”
“I have no one!”
“No one! What of my mother, and Dixon and Jane and Sarah… what of me? Have we not all been by your side?”
“All pushing me back to my bed, save your mother, and she is leaving. I miss having someone to talk to….” She crumbled then, her face collapsing back to her hands and her body shaking as if her heart within had already shattered.
He did not speak, but a hesitant hand touched her shoulder. She was not yet mistress of herself to respond, so she continued to fight for breath through her tears.
“I know it has been hard for you, since your… since—”
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